Undimmed
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: A short piece set after "The Woods Path", wherein John and Sherlock appreciate what they have. [Sugarverse]


Sherlock had breezed through dinner, ebullient and satisfied with the knowledge of another puzzle solved, another mystery bowed to his intellect. There was a lightness to him that John normally loved, but this time, it was driving him quietly crazy.

He didn't want the satisfaction, the feeling of triumph.

It wasn't just another case, for all that Sherlock seemed to think so. It was the simple fact that there was nothing abnormal about them, right now, in their room after dinner, John packing their bags so they could return to their home the next morning. No one raised an eyebrow at them sharing a bed, or at the matching rings on their left hands. There may be the occasional ignorant comment, but that only made each of them more likely to display affection in public.

There had been no decision beyond the obvious one – for John to ask and for Sherlock to say yes. There had been no choice of each other over family. There had been no pain, no loss, no unanswered questions.

He felt all of that like a weight, but it shouldn't have been. It was life, _his_ life, and he'd grown used to never questioning it. A sense of normality that was justly deserved, and which had been thrown back in his face by that damned letter.

It could have been them. Another time – or even in another place today – it could have been. There wouldn't be this, John packing idly while Sherlock lounged on their bed, reading and pretending to ignore the fact that there was work that needed to be done.

He didn't want to be thinking about this, but he couldn't stop it. Each time he tried was a failure, leading him further down the path of _what if_.

The sound of fabric shifting on fabric made him glance up; Sherlock was setting the book aside, a look of quiet determination on his face. John gave him a puzzled glance, which Sherlock ignored, beckoning.

"What?" John asked.

"Come here, John," Sherlock said, drawing him onto the bed. His face was caged by long fingers, thumbs stroking his bottom lip before Sherlock pulled them together, kissing lightly.

John hesitated, unsure what he wanted, then the sensation caught up with him and everything else was forgotten as he fisted his hands into Sherlock's hair, kissing him back, hard and possessively. He gave a grunt of protest when his husband pulled away, trying to snag Sherlock again, but the detective pressed fingertips to John's lips, shaking his head.

"Shh, John," he murmured. "Slowly."

He wanted to say no, to push Sherlock down on the bed and remind him how good impatience could feel, but the touch of lips on his again stopped him, turned something off that he realized he didn't want anyway. The urgency drained away with the sense of time – there was no need to rush because there were no limits, no one coming to look for them, no other life, no lies.

He wanted this, even more than he had a moment ago, but he wanted it to last. He wanted Sherlock to feel it as much as he did, to savour every sensation – not because they were so rare, but because they were so common.

When John lowered Sherlock onto his back, it was gently, without breaking their kiss. Hands roamed up and down his sides; he could feel the faint body heat even though his jumper. Sherlock moaned softly into his mouth, making John shudder as he stretched out across his husband. Limbs shifted to accommodate him, and John didn't miss the hardness forming in Sherlock's groin but left it – there would be so much time for that when they got there.

It was enough to get lost in the kissing, to let his hands map a familiar body, sliding over silk and wool and skin. He kissed Sherlock until there was a faint flush rising in his husband's cheeks, until lips were slightly swollen. John rested their foreheads together, relishing the way Sherlock's eyes darkened as he slipped a shirt button free, then another.

Long fingers went to work on John's belt, undoing it and his jeans to work his t-shirt free. John hunched his shoulders as Sherlock pulled his shirt and jumper off, the clothing landing with a soft _whump_ beside the bed. Hands skimming over his bare skin made John's eyes flutter closed; Sherlock found his mouth again, tugging his lower lip gently.

John blinked his eyes back open when Sherlock's fingertips brushed the edge of his scar. Sherlock's gaze was steady, penetrative without being disconcerting. John kissed him again, breaking away to suck on an earlobe when Sherlock's hands trailed down his spine to tug at the waistband of his jeans.

Lips and hands drifted over newly exposed skin until their clothing was puddled unceremoniously on the floor next to the bed. John pressed his thigh between Sherlock's, hands sliding against the detective's back to pull him closer. Sherlock whimpered, biting down on the sound as his eyes fluttered closed. John let him thrust once or twice, dragging his teeth across his husband's Adam's apple, then pulled away to reach for the lube.

He drizzled a thin line of gel down Sherlock's sternum, kissing away the smirk until Sherlock was relaxed beneath him again. John ran a hand through the lube, rubbing his thumb against his fingers as his knuckles trailed downward. Sherlock shifted, a twinge of impatience creasing his features; it vanished when John wrapped his slick hand around his husband's erection.

The detective moaned, pushing his head back into the pillows, arching gently into John's fist. John kept his grip light, running his thumb over the emerging head until Sherlock was almost panting, then pulled away. Darkened eyes found his, gaze hungry, but Sherlock didn't protest. John let himself be pulled into another kiss, his husband's tongue sweeping into his mouth, teasing his. Sherlock fumbled with the lube, entwining their fingers to coat John's again.

John pushed his husband's left leg over his shoulder; Sherlock spread his right one to open himself as John slid a slicked finger inside. It was a familiar dance, but John still enjoyed the way Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the pillow, trying to both heighten and displace the sensation. He wished they'd thought to bring some of their toys with them – Sherlock being opened up with a vibrator was a delicious sight. John smiled as he kissed his husband again, pushing a second finger in.

Some things could wait until they got home.

Hand roamed his back, fingertips digging into his muscles when John crooked his fingers, focusing on Sherlock's prostate. The detective's breathing broke down to panting little gasps, a whimper slipping from his lips when John pulled away. Sherlock's eyes met his again; John's fingers circled thin wrists, silently directing Sherlock to coat him, getting harder as skilled violinist's fingers teased and stroked.

John buried a groan in Sherlock's neck as he pushed in, feeling the gasp that caught in his husband's chest. It wasn't quite enough preparation – not so little as to be painful, just enough for a tight fit that left them both breathless. Sherlock wound his legs around John's waist, squeezing; the doctor had to screw his eyes shut biting the insides of his cheeks to prevent himself from coming.

There was a brush of lips against his ear and Sherlock loosened his hold, planting the soles of his feet on the bed, thrusting lightly. With another muffled groan, John picked up the rhythm, forcing himself not to push it faster. He propped himself on his forearms, resting their foreheads together again, sharing hot breath as they moved together.

His name was murmured in the tiny space between them and Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly for another kiss. John returned it, gasping softly when fingers dug into his ass, pushing him in deeper. He thrust harder without picking up the pace, making Sherlock moan.

"Sit up," he whispered, hands drifting to Sherlock's hips, a murmured, wordless question meeting his command. "Come on, sit up." Hands on Sherlock's thighs got the detective to hook his legs around John's waist again, the heel of one foot digging into the small of the doctor's back. He pushed them up, sitting on his own heels, spreading his legs a bit to get Sherlock to sink down even further. The detective whimpered, mouth finding John's hungrily, another whimper lost against John's tongue when he began to move again.

Sherlock tipped his head, arching his back, one arm wound loosely around John's shoulders, the other hand braced against John's knee. With the detective's long legs still hooked around his hips, John had to do all the work, but didn't mind – the tiny sounds Sherlock was making at the apex of each thrust more than made up for it.

Sherlock was getting tighter, moving against John as best he could, bottom lip caught between white teeth. John freed a hand from his partner's hips, not wanting to lose the sight of his husband with his head thrown all the way back, Adam's apple bobbing visibly when John began to stroke him slowly, just out of sync with his thrusts.

"God, John," Sherlock managed, voice deep and quiet. John bit his own lip, hard, to keep himself from succumbing to his husband's baritone, and kept going until Sherlock was moaning steadily, fingernails digging into the skin between John's shoulder blades.

"Come on, Sherlock," he whispered. The detective moaned as John swiped his thumb around the sensitive head, gasping and shuddering as he came. John pushed up as much as he could, screwing his eyes shut against the sensation of spasming muscles and the tiny, desperate whimpers.

He pushed Sherlock onto his back again, the cage of legs making it hard to move. John thrust as hard as he could, coming with a groan that was lost in a messy, inelegant kiss. Sherlock shuddered again, legs tightening almost convulsively, pushing John further in. He tried to brace himself on shaking arms, gave up, and collapsed onto his husband's chest, half lost to the sensation of clumsy lips against his cheek, his eyes, his jaw.

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as he turned his head just enough to find Sherlock in another kiss. The euphoria began to dissolve into relief, leaving his muscles lax as they fitted warm, sweat-dampened bodies together more comfortably.

"Mm-mm," Sherlock murmured when John tried to pull out gently, tightening his legs again. Thumbs traced along his jaw, one hand drifting around to cup the back of his neck. "Stay."

John hummed, enjoying the pleasure that made Sherlock's eyelashes flutter as he adjusted his position slightly.

"Always," he promised.


End file.
